• That short — potential stir

    That each can make but once —

    That Bustle so illustrious

    'Tis almost Consequence —


    Is the eclat of Death —

    Oh, thou unknown Renown

    That not a Beggar would accept

    Had he the power to spurn —

  • That Such have died enable Us

    The tranquiller to die —

    That Such have lived,

    Certificate for Immortality.

  • That this should feel the need of Death

    The same as those that lived

    Is such a Feat of Irony

    As never was — achieved —


    Not satisfied to ape the Great

    In his simplicity

    The small must die, as well as He —

    Oh the Audacity —



  • Go Thaumantia,' said Jove, 'and descend from the sky,
    'For Fame's golden clarion I hear;

    'Go learn what great mortal's desert is so high
    'As to ask notes so loud, sweet, and...

  • The Admirations — and Contempts — of time —

    Show justest — through an Open Tomb —

    The Dying — as it were a Height

    Reorganizes Estimate

    And what We saw not

    We distinguish clear —

    And mostly — see not

    What We saw before —


    'Tis Compound Vision —

    Light — enabling...

  • The Angle of a Landscape —

    That every time I wake —

    Between my Curtain and the Wall

    Upon an ample Crack —


    Like a Venetian — waiting —

    Accosts my open eye —

    Is just a Bough of Apples —

    Held slanting, in the Sky —


    The Pattern of a Chimney —

    The Forehead of a...

  •   The time for toil is past, and night has come,—

          The last and saddest of the harvest-eves;

      Worn out with labor long and wearisome,

      Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,

              Each laden with his sheaves.


      Last of the laborers thy feet I gain,

          Lord of the harvest! and my...

  • The Auctioneer of Parting

    His "Going, going, gone"

    Shouts even from the Crucifix,

    And brings his Hammer down —

    He only sells the Wilderness,

    The prices of Despair

    Range from a single human Heart

    To Two — not any more —

  • The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings —

    Like fallow Article —

    And not a song pervade his Lips —

    Or none perceptible.


    His small Umbrella quaintly halved

    Describing in the Air

    An Arc alike inscrutable

    Elate Philosopher.


    Deputed from what Firmament —

    Of what...